


You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three

by Lasgalendil



Series: You, Me, and the Devil Makes Three [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Never gonna turn around and desert you, Nipple Play, No seriously just try to get away, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Podfic Welcome, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Public Blow Jobs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Wilson ships it, Steve Roger's supersoldier serum tits, Steve Rogers is so done with this bullshit, Stucky - Freeform, The Winter Soldier's Best Mission Ever, murderkitten, never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:45:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5501360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier doesn’t remember Brooklyn. The Winter Soldier doesn’t remember James Buchanan Barnes. But The Winter Soldier does remember Steve Rogers…</p>
<p>…and The Winter Soldier is determined to make up for lost time. All seventy years of it, much to Steve's chagrin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.  
  
And Steve Rogers is on _a highway to hell._  
  
Call it self-preservation. Call it premature reconciliation. Call it exhausted and horny from a fight, Steve didn’t care, so long as that last one never made it into an official SHIELD report. He’d woken on the Potomac, beaten and bloodied, bleeding out, staring up into the unflinching eyes of the Winter Soldier.  
  
Blue eyes. Bucky’s eyes. Dilated and dark. Gloved hands stroking down his stomach. Checking for bleeding?  
  
…sure. Sure. He’d go with that. Clearly. Clearly just—  
  
Nope. _Definitely_ palming him, then, he thought as that hand squeezed against his half-hard cock. Not that he, um, minded. You know. It’d been seventy years. Give or take. But hemorrhaging, concussed, and half-dead wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured this meeting. And he was pretty sure from the dazed, frowning concentration on that face the Soldier didn’t really know what he was doing, either.  
  
Of course, with HYDRA, with Bucky, after everything they’d done…there were bound to be consent issues. Steve knew. They might never—and that was okay. Buck deserved to be treated gently. And Steve loved him, loved him as a friend and as a brother and as a lover so if sex was off the table now, even forever, it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Bucky had been brainwashed. Bucky had been raped. Consent was definitely going to be an issue…  
  
What he hadn’t imagined was it going _the other way._  
“Uh, Buck?” he asks (He’s not hard. Not hard at all.). “What are you doing there?”  
The Soldier only grunts.  
(Steve does his best not to.)  
“Hey, hey there, buddy,” Steve puts a hand on that metal arm even as the touch of the working hand against him drags shivers and moans from his mouth. Tries to direct him away. “You don’t have to do that—“  
“Hey, Buck—“  
“Bucky, _no._ ”  
“Bucky, stop.”  
“Oh, oh _God,_ Buck—“  
  
And that is how Steven Grant Rogers found himself thrusting erratically and grunting into his friend’s metal hand against his better judgement and against his will. It was also how he found himself having his first conscious orgasm since 1945. Not exactly a moment to be proud of.  
  
…Goddamnit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-consensual sex between previously established partners. Bucky has sustained brain-damage and memory loss and is unable to understand the concept of consent...with Steve at times being unconscious or asleep and unable to give it.


	2. Chapter 2

“On your left,” a familiar voice says when he opens his eyes. That’s odd. It’s Sam. But he can’t see—  
  
“waaaaaaay over on your left,” the voice continues.  
  
“Sam?”  
“Over here, buddy.”  
“Where—“ is a bad question. The pressing question should be and is what in the name of the founding fathers is this pressing weight against him from shoulder to crotch and what is that on his neck—?!  
  
Oh.  
  
That would be The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes. _Bucky_. Sucking and licking the angle where his neck and shoulder met, as greedy and messily as if it was his cock.  
  
“Oh. Uh, hey there, Soldier,” he pats the Soldier’s head. Because really, at this point, what else is he doing to do?  
  
“Steve?” Sam frowns.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “It’s…complicated.”  
  
“Complicated is your childhood friend who died in 1945 is still alive and a brain-washed Soviet Assassin ordered to kill you. This is just all sorts of _fucked up,_ man.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Steve groans. Wrong answer, he thinks bitterly. The Soldier only redoubles his efforts, stroking into him with his hips, right hand palming roughly against his chafing nipples. Bucky had always been obsessed with his tits. Like he was a fucking girl. It had always been embarrassing, really. Skinny Steve got a new body full of muscles, lungs that actually worked so they wouldn’t have to stop their fooling around every three seconds just so he could fucking breathe, a firm ass, and a long, thick-set dick that would put porn picture stars to shame… yet all Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment wanted to do was rub his face, hands, and cock all over “those pretty tits of yours, Stevie.”  
  
“You have to understand,” Steve says through gritted teeth, trying not to sigh in annoyance or—even worse—arousal. “It’s not like that. Okay, so it was like that. But it was also like _this_ —“  
  
“Really? We’re doing this now?” Sam did not sound amused. “You’re outing yourself—you’re outing you both—to me only when TNJBB is like, just a dick a way from fucking you in public?”  
  
Apparently academia had been having a field day for seventy years while he was sleeping. Once he woke, all anyone wanted to do was find out if Captain America really had gotten into Bucky Barnes’ pants or vice versa. Even Sam had been dropping unsubtle hints, like introducing him to his gay sister Becca and taking him to gay bars with her and saying shit like ‘you know you can tell me anything, man’ and ‘you know it’s 2014 now, right’.  At first Steve thought Sam was being polite. Then he thought Sam was perhaps interested (he’d never been interested in any man besides Bucky, any woman besides Peggy). Then he realized Sam was just trying to determine whether or not he was in the closet in so many words _without actually saying the words._  
  
…and Bucky had been dead. So. He wasn’t going to dredge up painful memories or shame Bucky’s memory, even if it did mean a huge celebration for the gay/queer community and Bucky and he had nothing to be ashamed of. But Captain America was a public figure, and Buck’s private life was private, dead for seventy years or no. And there hadn’t seemed any plausible way to out himself without dragging Bucky’s name into it. Besides, Steve Rogers wasn’t exactly gay. He wasn’t even bisexual, he didn’t think. He was just Bucky-and-Peggy-sexual, whatever that meant. He wasn’t sure if that counted as being in the closet or not. But yeah, if Bucky were alive today Steve had no qualms imagining his lover in silk panties, comfy sweaters, slouchy knit boots and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the bedazzled words FUCK YOUR GENDER BINARY. But Bucky wasn’t alive, or so Steve had thought, and it was none of anybody’s business who Bucky had liked to bed or fuck or give head to (and Bucky, Steve remembered while taking cold showers at 3 am because waking up hard and masturbating to your decades dead best friend was just wrong and sad on so many levels, gave _very good head_.)  
  
“Do you mind?” Steve asks Sam as a second hand joins the first in cupping his tits, teasing his nipples, now strained and sore. “A little help?”  
  
“Man, that’s the fucking _Winter Soldie_ r. Your secret war husband or some shit like that,” Sam shakes his head. “You’re on your own.”  
  
Ge _e, thanks, pal._


	3. Chapter 3

Steve Rogers was a skinny little punk who nearly died of pneumonia every winter and spent Christmas in the hospital each year. Captain America, however, was a muscle-bound God of patriotism, athleticism, and the genuine, bona-fide, certified symbol of 20th century American values. Also, a sex symbol.   
  
And, Steve ruses miserably, after seventy some years alone denied pleasure or comfort of any kind, The Winter Soldier deserved some.  
  
He explains this to Sam. (“Yeah. And _THEN some_ ,” Sam says.) Asks him not to call in SHIELD or the Avengers. He doesn’t want to scare Bucky. Doesn’t want Bucky to bolt, disappear, doesn’t want him to be alone, doesn’t want the remnants of HYDRA—even the US government—to have him. Steve has been a lab rat. He doesn’t want Bucky to escape HYDRA only to end up a prisoner to military science.   
  
“Yeah, Cap,” Sam raises an eyebrow as the Soldier continues to get his mack on with every muscle in Steve’s neck. “I don’t really think that’s gonna happen.”  
  
Steve sighs. The Soldier has lowered his feral grazing from Steve’s jaw to his sternum, stopping only to take large, gulping sucks on the fabric over his nipples, thrusting his hips happily like some goddamned kid without a clue. The Winter Soldier, Steve thinks, is worse than a puppy in his unbridled enthusiasm, worse than Bucky “Oh God Stevie fuck me, fuck me harder” Barnes in bed the first time they had a moment’s privacy after Azzano, worse even than Sergeant James Buchanan “oh sorry, Stevie how’d my hand get there” Barnes for the entirety of the Italian theater, and—seemingly impossibly—even worse than Steven “Oh God yes I’m no longer asthmatic and 6’2’’ of patriotism, testosterone, sexual tension and oh fuck Buck that ass looks FINE” Grant Rogers. And if Bucky Barnes could put up with a juiced up Stevie on steroids who went from barely being able to tolerate the excitement of a blow job to rabid sex cannibal for two years all on the down low while getting shot at by Nazis…well. The least Steve can do now is return the favor.   
  
…However begrudgingly. So for the moment, the Soldier is happy. Steve is fighting off arousal, revulsion, and the hypotension that comes with severe blood loss secondary to multiple abdominal gun shot wounds. Sam Wilson is about to be sick.  
  
…or burst out laughing. For his own pride’s sake, Steve hopes it’s the former.   
  
“You enjoying yourself?” Sam’s voice is hazy. Steve opens his eyes. He’d lost consciousness again.   
  
The Winter Soldier, he notes heavily, seems perfectly content to continue groping him long after he becomes a corpse. “What?” Steve asks. “No. I’m just. Trying—“  
  
“Shit!” Sam says as the Soldier shifts. “Steve, you’ve been _shot!”_  
  
“Mmm-hmm,” Steve tries to say. He feels weak and dizzy (from the blood loss, please let it be from the blood loss _goddamnit please_ let it be the blood loss not an erection not now while Sam’s watching…) and sicker than he has since ever taking Erskine’s serum. But the Winter Soldier misinterprets the sound as a sigh of pleasure, and suddenly that mouth is on Steve’s, sucking face so hard he swears he hears a tooth crack. Or several.  
  
“Okay, okay, shit, Steve. I’m going to try—“  
  
And then the moaning tongue and lips against, inside, and around (the Soldier is neither meticulous or particularly picky which part of Steve his mouth might touch. Steve is vaguely grateful the Soldier hasn’t opted to explore elsewhere.)  his are gone, replaced by a vibrating hum deep  within the Soldier’s chest and throat.  
  
“SHIT!” Sam Wilson backs up so fast he falls flat on his ass.   
  
Silence. Then—  
  
“Do you mind?” Steve asks weakly as the Soldier mounts again into his rhythm of kissing, nipping, and sucking his lips, massaging his tits in time with gentle pelvic thrusts.  A new noise now. Not gasping, not moaning, not that freakish-ass growl. “What’s he doing?” Steve wonders to the universe.  
  
“My guess? Purring.” Sam shrugs. “I get too close, man, he hisses. He um. He _bit_ me, Steve. I might be turning into a fucking vampire.”  
  
Steve Rogers hates himself. Steve Rogers hates life. Steve Rogers hates HYDRA and bullies and injustice and systemic racism and global poverty and child hunger, but Steve Rogers does not hate The Winter Soldier.  Not even if The Winter Solider is groping (and/or humping) him quite possibly literally to death. Not even if The Winter Soldier really isn’t Bucky Barnes. Not Anymore. “Call Nat,” he whispers.   
  
Because Steve Rogers aka Captain America the invincible Super Soldier might be dying, HYDRA was part of SHIELD, and James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes had gone from his  dead, closeted, secret lover to attempting to tit-fuck him in public in broad daylight (he was also, for a while, like seventy years give or take, an Ex-military POW Soviet Soldier Assassin who now that Steve thinks about it probably killed Kennedy, the first Catholic President of the United States  now that was a bit of history he was sad to have missed and holy hell his brain was tripping from blood loss), but Natasha Romanov _would still know what to do._  
  
Of that, Steve was certain. Then Steve was unconscious again, so he really wasn’t anything.

  
Except the Winter Soldier’s. 


	4. Chapter 4

Bright lights. Scratchy sheets. Blank ceiling. Hospital, Steve registered. Then—

  
_…Oh._

  
“On your left,” Sam’s voice.

  
“On your right.” Nat.

  
“…and on your—“ Sam coughed. Cleared his throat. “No, seriously, Cap. On your dick. He’s been there for about three hours. I don’t know which is more impressive—your rebound or his utter lack of gag reflex.”

  
“Sasha, sweetheart, he’s _coming dry_. Give the guy a break already.”

  
And then there was a gentle rumble in the sweet, hot, rhythmic wetness wrapped around his raw, aching cock.

  
“What’d he say?” Steve mumbled through the hazy bliss of hard narcotics and the best damn blow job he’d ever had in his life, hail Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our fuck it, it was pointless, really. Steven Grant Rogers was going straight to hell. On a highway, in a hand basket, on a Hog, it made no difference. Either way, the Winter Soldier was driving.  
  
“'Nyet,'” Nat said. “Means—“  
  
“What I think it means,” Steve sighed. “Hey, Soldier.” Then he patted the Soldier’s hair. Because at this point, really, what was he supposed to do? “At ease.”  
  
Then the Winter Soldier stopped, popped his red lips from Steve’s swollen cock, crawled up and nestled onto Steve’s chest, chin stuck over his left shoulder and fell instantly asleep. Steve considered which was worse: inadvertent blow-job or Hydra’s ex-Assassin Asset’s full weight huddled against his healing wounds. Truth was, it’s just about a toss up.  
  
“Aw, Sasha, that’s adorable,” Nat said. “And terrifying.”  
  
“I’m just going to stick with terrifying. Yeah. Just terrifying. Maybe absolutely fucking terrifying, but _terrifying_.”  
  
Steve was vaguely aware of being covered up with something that was not two-hundred-plus pounds of cybernetic ex-Soviet assassin. “Don’t tell. Fury,” he mumbled.  
  
“Dude, don’t worry,” Sam’s voice came as he faded into restful, sexed-out sleep. “You think I _want_ to write this mission report?”  
  
“Mission Report,” A voice that was Bucky’s and a voice that was also Not-Bucky’s whispered into his left ear. “Target: Steve Rogers. Status: Acquired.” And Steve giggled, thought it was the sweetest thing that’d ever been said to him…but that might be the pain-killers talking. Or his still-throbbing erection. Then he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing was ever perfect. Even Dr. Eskine’s serum had a few downsides.  
  
Steve preferred to think of them as _oversights_. In an effort to make an unstoppable soldier, the good Doctor had overlooked the implications of superhuman immunity. Accelerated healing meant accelerated metabolism. He needed calories—carbohydrates, proteins, fatty acids—in order to rebuild. Over the years, Steve had grown used to it. He’d been a sickly kid, and if it weren’t for Sarah Rogers plying him with chicken soup and Bucky pleading with him to _eat it goddamnit Stevie or I’ll fuckin’ make you eat it_ he’d died of pneumonia before the War. So it came as no surprise, then, that the first time he’d been injured in combat Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes stuffed him with chocolate bars and peanut butter commandeered from the Howlie’s collective K rations and sat with him as he forced himself to eat. Food, they had long since discovered, went down easier from Bucky’s hands with his constant crass chatter.  
  
Steve Rogers was used to being sick. Hurt. The only difference in this body was the treatment.  If he was wounded, stitches weren’t an option. Stitches were a hindrance. If he broke a bone, it had to be set immediately. It had to be set because it would heal and need rebroken. He can’t count how many times he has broken, healed, and forcibly rebroken his own fingers in the line of duty. In Goldie’s Gym. Punching. Punching. Punching.  
  
But he doesn’t have a reason to punch anymore. Bucky is alive.  
  
…Steve has a new reason to punch. The Winter Soldier isn’t Bucky. Not even close. Not to mention the Winter Soldier seems hellbent on getting into Steve’s _pants_ (or current lack thereof).  
  
But the healing, the metabolism, it means he can’t get blood transfusions, his body reacts to the foreign substance, gives him anaphylaxis, and he remembers the first time he got blood like an asthma attack on a Brooklyn street in winter when he’d dropped his inhaler and couldn’t reach it and there was no Bucky because his best guy had gone to Fort McCoy and he remembers wondering _am I going to die here am I going to die alone_ and _Bucky._ The healing, the metabolism. It means he can’t get IV fluids. His body rejects the insertion, starts scarring over. He can feel the bone marrow churning out new blood, he feels the water from his skin, his muscles, his very cells pulled into his veins only to come dripping out. He feels his liver burning fuel, burning him, in an effort to repair it all.  
  
But this body wasn’t human anymore. This body repaired itself, a self-sustaining machine that refused sickness, refused aging, refused death. There was no Medicine. No End. No Release.  
  
No. When Steve Rogers was injured, the medication he needed was calories, plain and simple. Calories and time. The rest Dr. Erskine’s serum could do on its own.  
  
Calories. It was fine. Steve shuddered to think what the Winter Soldier would do to anyone who approached him with a scalpel or needle (The Winter Soldier had bitten Sam for violating proximity. The Body, it seemed, Was Not To Be Touched Except To Be Fucked Senseless, and only then by the Soldier himself). But calories were just…calories. Innocuous. Right. Like the two-hundred-plus pound murder-kitten (as Sam called it—him. Steve wouldn’t subject Bucky/Not-Bucky/Still-Bucky/The Soldier to that sort of dehumanizing language, animalistic behavior or no.) currently purring against his chest, kneading his tits, only occasionally writhing his hips so their half-hard cocks could touch through the entirely too thin fabric of the Soldier’s tactical gear and Steve’s hospital sheets. _Innocuous,_ Steve shuddered. Yeah. Sure. _Completely_ innocuous.  
  
But ‘Murderkitten’ had seemed to accept Nat and Sam’s presence just fine, provided they kept their distance to about three meters and only approached them slowly. Once he’d figured out they had no intentions on Steve he’d been content to ignore them, really. So maybe it was less ‘ignore them’ and more ‘single-mindedly focused on groping every inch of Steve’s hot body’. “But uh, no sudden movements,” Sam said. “Just in case.” Heck, he’d even responded to some of Nat’s questions/commands, usually just a terse ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in Russian, but at least there was something going on behind those lust-wide eyes besides his obvious intentions on Steve.  
  
“How you feeling, Cap?” Sam asked him through the daze that was heavy-hitting drugs in heavy-hitting doses and the silver, pleasant fog of whatever the hell it was the Winter Soldier was currently doing with his tongue and Steve’s left ear.  
  
“Tired.”  
  
“Well, getting shot and getting your brains fucked out will do that,” Nat grinned.  
  
They hadn’t, Steve wanted to object. Some (admittedly very) heavy petting, necking, the unfortunate incident with the blow job but they hadn’t _fucked._ Hell, until the hospital, everything the Soldier had done had been _over his clothes._ Steve wasn’t an expert on these things, the 21st century wasn’t his first home, and sure some words had changed over time (he still used ‘boner’ around Sam just because it was _Sam_ and Sam couldn’t stop laughing and it felt so damned good to laugh), but Steve was fairly certain ‘fuck’ wasn’t one of them.  
  
“Alright, Cap,” Sam sighed. “You ready?” Feeding tube. Steve hated feeding tubes, but after years with Erskine’s serum he was used to them by now. Inside he still felt like Skinny Steve, and when he was critical he just couldn’t keep up with his body’s needs. And it wasn’t like they could feed him through a needle.  
  
Nat approached, NG prepped and in hand. The Soldier bristled. “Hey, there, Sasha. We’re just going to—“  
  
And for the first time in hours the Winter Soldier’s touch left him completely. The Soldier snarled, lunged, servos spinning, grabbed Nat by the throat and shoved her _intoagainstthrough_ the goddamned wall.  
  
“Aw fuck this shit!” Sam ran to her rescue, only to be pried off by the flesh arm and sent hurtling.  
  
“Bucky, NO!” Steve tried to shout. “Bucky, Bucky no!” But the Soldier was up, hackles raised, rolled from the bed, weapons out and fingers locked on triggers, wide eyes glaring between Nat and Sam and Steve.  
  
_He didn’t kill them_ , Steve’s heart beat in his chest. _He didn’t kill them_. The Soldier was looking to him. For Command. For a kill order.  
  
“Hey, hey, Buck,” Steve cringed, switching tactics. He was, after all, the best military strategist of the last World War. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to order, even seem to order Buck to—not after—  
  
He was as gentle, as plaintive as he could. Tried to phrase it as a request, an invitation, rather an a command. The Soldier would have to obey, but at least this way Steve could live with himself. “C’mon, Buck. Soldier. C’mere. Come back to bed.”  
  
Murder-kitten didn’t need to be asked twice. Sudden spring, pounce, and the Winter Soldier was on him, straddling his hips, mouth buried against the underside of Steve’s jaw, and hands—goddamnit, those hands—right back on his bruised and beaten tits again, tugging and tussling them through the fabric of Steve’s gown, the Glock and Sig forgotten—abandoned—on the bedside.  
  
And that, Steve mused bitterly, at least meant Bucky Barnes was still in there someplace behind the greasepaint, wild eyes, kevlar and leather. No other person could look at Steve’s post-serum physique in all its glory, be invited to bed and still be so single-mindedly, solely obsessed with his stupid, super-soldier tits.  
  
[They were embarrassing, frankly. Even—even Peggy Carter, that bastion of Britishness and composure under fire—couldn’t help herself when he’d first stepped out of the chamber. They were _huge_. Obvious. Steve was more self-conscious about these damn dame’s tits than he had ever been about his scrawny, scoliotic body before. And that was saying something.]  
  
“I’m uh, I’m just going to um, safeties. You know. In case—“ Sam approached the bed, pulled the pistols away gingerly. The Winter Soldier only huffed if he acknowledged his presence at all, lips and heavy breathing focused intently on the dip of Steve’s right collarbone.  
  
“Nice one, Rogers,” Nat croaked, massaging her throat. “You sure we didn’t get the same manual?”  
  
“I’m improvising,” Steve flushed, perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps because James Buchanan Barnes had forgotten his country, his own name, his whole life…but he still remembered what Stevie liked.  
  
…and Bucky—the Soldier now—was very, _very good_ at what Stevie liked.  
  
He missed the words, though. The Winter Soldier was happy to grope him in grunting, awkward silence. Bucky’d kept up a constant chatter, a litany of shushing and praising and goddamned pillow-talk, probably a remnant of all those days, nights—years, even—when the gentle touch of a hand on hand and words were all they had when Steve’s lungs just couldn’t take any exertion. And Steve swore he could get off to the sound of that voice alone, Bucky Barnes sitting by his bedside or laying beside him, elaborating on every dirty thing he’d do with his tongue, his lips, everywhere he’d put himself once Stevie was well, calling him babydoll, sweetheart, honey instead of punk or jerk, because Buck didn’t have the words for goodbye and Bucky Barnes refused to believe the doctors when they said an hour, tonight, tomorrow was all they had left. Bucky’s large hands gently stroking him off once he was well enough to sit up, eat, not letting Steve lift a finger to help his lover, saying “I got this Stevie I got you I got me you don’t worry your pretty little head you just lay there and look good for me, babydoll.” And even—even after, when Steve was big and Bucky was the small one, when Bucky had asked him to—well. Even then it’d been Bucky encouraging, telling him how great he felt, how well he treated him, where to put his hands, himself, how to stroke, move, how lucky  he was to have best guy who’d come for him hell or high water and _I can take it Stevie you’re not hurting me I’m not a goddamned dame, Rogers, save that shit for Peggy, God, God Stevie yes—_  
  
And even after. Even now. Readjusting to life in a modern world that passed him by. On the very rare occasions he’d even tried to masturbate, his own hands clumsy, unsure, unsatisfying, it’d been Bucky’s voice he tried to remember.  
  
So Steve just sat. Well, laid there. With Bu— _the Winter Soldier_ silently stroking him, kissing him, finding new ways for lips and tongue to collide against flesh and bone. It was aggressive. Possessive. But gentle. Still sweet. It brought him back to Brooklyn to London to the Italian theater, to a ruined pub in Austria trying to drink himself to death and finding Erskine’s serum had taken even suicide away from him, too.  
  
…had taken _Bucky_ away forever.  
  
“Here,” Steve grunted, feeling weaker with every second. “Just let me—“ Nat handed him the NG tube, tip already lubed up. Steve brought it shakily to his nostrils, took a deep breath, clamped down his gag reflex and—  
  
The Soldier’s roaming lips stopped. Stared.  
  
The Soldier yanked it away, choking Steve as it threaded forcefully back out his throat, then shredded it deftly with his metal arm in one quick movement and glared at Nat like she had _dared_ to impose herself on his Steve, _how fucking dare she,_ dual Derringers raised and ready.  
  
“Steve?” Nat said, stock still, barely breathing. “A little help?”  
  
“Hey, hey, Soldier,” Steve crooned, put hand gently against Bucky’s arm. “You forget about me, buddy? Why don’t you give those to her. Yeah, that’s it.”  
  
“Frisk him,” Nat ordered. Because even four guns down the Soldier’s uniform was still bristling with holsters and heat and god knows what else.  
  
Steve groaned. He was sick. Possibly dying. Of blood loss and embarrassment. Being molested by a childhood friend, former-lover, and HYDRA assassin-turned-murderkitten. He felt weak and wobbly from being shot and over-sexed and he had a bad feeling how the Soldier might interpret that.  
  
“Hey, buddy. Can I—have that?” Steve gestured to the holster on his left hip and the Skorpion high on his back. The Soldier presented them, businesslike, uncaring of possession once the weapon had left his hand. “And, um, that? How about we just, let’s get that off—and that one? Okay, let’s just—“  
  
But the Soldier got the hint. Perhaps too much, Steve winced as the Soldier stood, stripped, shed holsters, belts, buckles, straps, kevlar and in less than a minute was back in his bed stark ass naked, muscles bathed in a sheen of sweat, raging red cock pressed against him through the (very) inadequate coverage of a thin sheet and flimsy hospital gown and _good God_ , Steve wondered, _was it hot in here?_  
  
Sam had the decency to look away.

  
Nat only grinned, fishing up all the instruments of death. “Looking good, Sasha.” Steve felt his cock twitch, face flush in agreement. Yep. It was certain, now. Steve Rogers was definitely going to hell.  
  
For a good Catholic boy, he really wasn’t putting up much of a protest.


	6. Chapter 6

So.

So Bucky was alive.  
So Bucky remembered him.  
So Bucky was here, now. And Bucky was _safe_.

Safe, of course, being a relative term given the whole HYDRA/SHIELD/Project INSIGHT fiasco that had essentially dismantled the Intelligence operations of the western world. Their enemies would mobilize, their allies would be undefended, and there was no way even Captain “Star-Spangled” America could escape a court-martialing this time. That and Steve was pretty sure breaking into the Smithsonian counted as felony theft since the crime committed occurred on federal property. But worst of all, the remnants HYDRA would want their Asset back. The US Government would want the perpetrators punished, including a certain brain-washed Soviet assassin, and of all that paled, quite frankly, to the current crisis of the the Winter Soldier really, _really_ wanting in Steve’s pants.

Not that Steve was wearing any pants. Or anything at all, really, besides a backless hospital gown currently slipping from his shoulders and rucking up past his dick and if that didn’t give a guy the wrong impression, he didn’t know what would and wow, did his mind actually go there? What sort of meds were they _giving him_ —? And therein lay the problem. Before he’d been unconscious, or near enough to it, desperate to hold onto Buck by any means necessary. But now? Now it was pretty damn hard (his mother would kill him, forgive me father for I have sinned) to ignore a guy frotting desperately against you with his come all over your chest.

And that, Steve reflected glumly, was his only consolation in all of this. He may have been shot, stabbed, nearly bled out, starving to death, his country in crisis and unceremoniously fucked five ways ’til Sunday by a super spy assassin using the shell of his best friend but at least Bucky Barnes wasn’t keeping a running commentary about his super-soldier serum tits.

…In retrospect, he may need to reconsider his priorities.

“Don’t get me wrong, Cap, no homo and all, don’t want you thinking I’m after your guy or anything…but are white people’s balls _meant_ to be that blue?”

And therein lay the dilemna. Bucky—the Soldier—murderkitten—wasn’t in his right mind, Steve argued. He was happy (in a lot of pain) to let Bucky (not Bucky) use him for whatever he needed, but it wouldn’t be fair to take undue advantage. “He can’t give consent,” Steve groaned. In exasperation. Clearly exasperation. Right. Sure. And his freed dick was just standing in salute. For reasons. At ease, there, buddy.

“Steve, murderkitten can’t even _understand_ consent,” Sam said. “So how about you stop being such a stick in the mud an’ give him what he wants before he kills us all.”

“I dunno, Sam,” Natasha snickered. “Sasha looks pretty _content_ to me.” Content, in this context, meaning flesh and metal elbows braced on either side of Steve’s head, hair hanging down, mouth held slack, rutting against him and what was left of his much too thin hospital gown like the future of the free world depended on it.

Sam snorted. “Yeah, no spoilers, Cap, but Winter Is Coming.”

And oh God, oh, _oh_ he was. And Steve was too. Because after seventy years the sight of Bucky Barnes blinking dazedly and licking his sinful lips above him was enough to make Steve Rogers come untouched, and Steve Rogers had been very, very, _very_ touched. Groped. Man-handled, if you will.

And oh, oh no. Because Bucky/Not-Bucky/The Soldier/murderkitten was now eyeing his come-splattered tits with a lust-ridden look from under his lashes that was less ‘come-hither’ and more ‘fuck-me-up-now-Stevie’.

 _Please, please, please_ , Steve prayed, before remembering that he wasn’t exactly in a position to be praying in and that he was most definitely certainly absolutely entirely going to hell. Right now. And the Winter Soldier wasn’t helping.

“Okay, wow, Steve, really—?” Sam raised an eyebrow as the Winter Soldier began to graze. “You’re going to let him _lick both your come off your chest_ but holding his hand is a felony. Wow. That’s, that’s just cruel. You know I’m actually starting to feel sorry for the guy?”

“You might’ve told me,” Nat grinned, giving him no sympathy whatsoever. Gee, thanks, Nat. “One, that you were into guys and two, that you were into some pretty kinky cum-play. It would’ve opened up a completely different world of dating opportunities. I may have given up and just gotten you a Grindr profile.”

“Girl, you are so lucky you didn’t,” Sam said. “At least now murderkitten’s cleaning up his own messes. I am behind Cap one hundred percent of but I am NOT burying any bodies for his psycho boyfriend.”

“I’m ninety-five,” Steve protested. “No one is _anyone’s_ boyfriend.”

“I am NOT burying any bodies for his psycho husband,” Sam corrected. And Steve? Well. Steve had a murderkitten _massaging come into_ then _lapping come off of_ his tits and purring. There was no way to dignify that with a response. There was probably no dignity left, anywhere, ever. Steve may be functionally immortal, but he had the very, very bad feeling he would never live this down.

“Well,” Nat winked, looming closer, the NG in hand. “While the cat’s away, huh?”

“I hate both you,” Steve said to them as the feeding tube slid down his nostrils and into his throat. “So much.”

The Winter Soldier only growled in appreciation, and licked a thick stripe up Steve’s sternum. And if Steve maybe, sort of slightly, perhaps took that time to whimper and thrust his own hips uncontrollably under the Soldier’s warm weight and teasing, tickling hair, well then. He was drugged and dying and it was an autonomic reaction and his mother had been a Suffragette and an Abortionist and had taught him about sex and not to be ashamed and protested Compton laws and told him he wasn’t going to hell or go blind if he masturbated but he damn well better start washing his own sheets _and it was not his fault._

HYDRA, however, had not been so forthcoming. Murderkitten took that as a sign to continue, pulled off Steve’s wet left nipple with a pop, and planted an open-mouthed, come-swapping kiss somewhere behind Steve’s tonsils. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part?

…The worst part was that Steve really, really liked it. HYDRA or not, brain-washed or not, Cyborg assassin or not, the Winter Soldier tasted and kissed like Bucky Barnes. That come was creamy, salty and sweet, tasted like a hot summer night in Brooklyn, like the desperate, burning ashes of Kreichsburg, like stolen kisses in a shared winter bedroll quiet and whispered lest they wake the Commandos, like an evening’s leave in the sand off the coast of Sicily drinking nothing but each other and stolen draughts of wine. He’d waited seventy damn years for this kiss, for the mingled taste of Buck and himself again, thank you very much, and at the moment he didn’t care if there was frothy come-laden drool dribbling down his chin or if the bullet wound in his side had started seeping blood again or if anyone was watching. It was 2014, this was Bucky fucking Barnes, they were both (somewhat) consenting adults and what they were doing was perfectly legal now and even the pope wouldn’t condemn them, thank you very much.

“Be right back,” Sam sighed. “If anyone needs me I'm currently _burning my Bucky-bear and rethinking all my life choices_.”

But Nat only hung the NG slurry, and settled in to watch. “I’m not.”


	7. Chapter 7

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. First, there was nothing. Then God said, let there be light, and there was a _horrible, disgusting tongue_ in his ear. Steve yelped.

Murderkitten only blinked twice, cuddled next to him content as a cat.

“Oh,” Steve said. “Hey, Buck.”

And there was evening and morning, the first day.

 

Steve slept.

For a few hours. Possibly another century.

And then—

“Oh,” Steve said, warm breath ghosting against the sensitive curls above his cock. “Hey, Buck.” The Winter Soldier nuzzled him, positively purring.

Steve slept some more.

And there was evening and morning, the second day.

 

There were lips, wet, plush lips kissing lightly against him and hands, one warm and one cool jostling his balls gently, a teasing tongue flitting against the slit at the head of his cock.

“Oh,” Steve blinked. “Hey, Buck.”

There was a rustling in the chair camped beside his bed. “Sasha!” Nat threw a pillow at him. “Let him sleep!”

The Winter Soldier hissed, then swallowed Steve down to the root.

And there was evening and morning and the world’s best blow job, the third day.

 

There was _something_ , Steve thought, something important, if only he could remember…

The Winter Soldier! Steve cried out “ _Bucky—!_ ”

Sharp teeth snicked against his collar-bone. Steve startled awake. Someone bit against the meat of his neck, so deep and hard it drew blood, sucked a mark painful and wretched and so, _so good_ against his flesh.

“Oh,” Steve whimpered, " _Oh._ Hey, Buck.”

Murderkitten growled. Steve fell back asleep.

And there was evening and morning and a shit ton of hickies, the fourth day.

 

So Steve was watching Star Wars with Sam and they were at the part where Darth Vader says “No I am your father” and it was fine and all but Tony had spoiled? sure, he’d go with spoiled it for him ages ago but whatever it was cool but instead Vader just breaks fourth wall and takes off his helmet says who the hell is bucky and it’s _BuckyhisBuckyBuckyBarnes_ and Steve is screaming it was wrong it was wrong Tony said it was Anakin Skywalker not _Bucky_ no it can’t it wasn’t _it couldn’t be Bucky—!_

Steve woke with a start. But there was a warm, heavy weight pressing against him, and something smooth, wet, warm and _ohgodyes_ gliding against his nipples.

“Oh,” he gasped. “Hey, Bu—NAT!”

“It’s Lanolin,” she applied the ointment to his right side with one gloved hand and an air of cool, medical detachment. “You were _fissuring_ , Steve. It had to be done.”

Oh, okay then. But that bottle? In her other hand? That didn’t look like medicine. It looked like—

“Whipped cream,” she grinned as the Winter Soldier swirled Steve’s entire left tit in his mouth. “I had to distract him somehow.”

And yes. Wow. Okay. Yes. Murderkitten was _definitely_ distracted _and hello, there, Captain_.

“How long?” Steve groaned when the orgasm was over.

“Erect or flaccid?”

Steve did his best “Captain America is disappointed in you” face. Nat raised an eyebrow.

“Six days.”

“Sam?” he croaked.

“Didn’t want to interrupt your big fat gay wedding,” she said.

Steve had a retort on his tongue. A witty one. About being bisexual? It was right there, it was right. There…

He mumbled something incoherent. Nat said, “Sure, Steve.” And there was evening and morning, and _Steve was never speaking of this again_ , the sixth day.

 

And on the seventh day, the Winter Soldier rested.

Steve woke to the sound of the Troubleman soundtrack. There was a heavy weight pinning his arm immobile against his left side. A cast—?

“Oh,” Steve said. “Hey, Buck.” Bucky Barnes, Not-Bucky, The Winter Soldier, murderkitten, whoever this man was now, was finally sleeping. Sprawled naked and gorgeous and definitely draped over Steve and yeah, that was a metal hand wrapped against the flesh of Steve's right ass cheek and his half-hard dick poking into Steve’s hip, but finally— _blessedly_ —sleeping.

“Oh your left,” Sam’s voice came. But from his right, and that was just _confusing_.

“Shh,” Steve managed to grunt.

“He asleep?”

Steve nodded.

“Fucking finally,” Sam groaned. “I’ve been watching your boy play-fucking you for a week, Steve. A week—!”

The Winter Soldier snuffled. Nuzzled against Steve’s left tit, licked once, twice, then feel deeply asleep, still suckling. “If you wake him,” Steve mumbled, drawing a protective arm around his bedmate, “I will kill you.”

“Right,” Sam buried his knuckles in his eyes. “My bad. Don’t wake the baby.”

And there was evening and morning, the seventh day…and Samuel Thomas Wilson resigned himself to the first day of the rest of his terrible, murderkitten-filled life. You couldn’t just turn your back on Captain America, even when you really, really, and he meant _really_ wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For actual, well-written Steve/Bucky fics (and porn!) with Bucky's horrible, disgusting tongue in Steve's ear, go read _Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down)_ by spitandvinegar.


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